A Festive Transition

 4 and a 1/2 min. read

Image: Hi Mac

As well as ruffling feathers at conferences, I also find time to host two successful December dinner parties. The first ends up being an unintentional dry run for Christmas. I don’t plan for it to be so close to Yuletide; more just a case of finding a suitable space in my diary. I realise it’s the first time I have hosted more than one person for a good while. Maybe that’s why unconsciously, in terms of numbers, this soirée will be my most ambitious to date.

I invite a mix of recently made acquaintances, in addition to my long-time confidante Karin. Guests include Vision, my University colleague originally from Zimba; Mélanie, who recruited me for a migration rights consultancy in Spring 2024; Anne-Marie, a thoughtful and beautiful young woman of Congolese, Rwandan and Eritrean heritage that I met at a Palestine solidarity event; Romana, a straight-talking, multi-lingual I know from a monthly language event, also of mixed-Congolese heritage and Kathleen; a Brit I’ve met at various cultural events and who generously offered me a ticket to see Robert Glasper in autumn.

My choice of diverse and intergenerational guests turns out to be propitious. After the initial awkwardness, a natural kismet emerges. The ambiance is celebratory. Luxury-loving Romana brings a bottle of champagne that will remain untouched all evening. (I’ll eventually gift it to my mother during her Christmas visit.)

We have a number of candid conversations about race, misogynoir, culture shocks and interracial dating, amongst multiple themes. In particular, Vision opens up about life adjusting to Belgium and the scandalous not-so-micro-agressions she has encountered living in Flanders. 

I couldn’t be more pleased about the amazing feedback over the coming days. Vision comments on how easy I make it look to find compatible friendships.  Being in a committed relationship, mothering a young child, and as a full-time post-doc, she struggles to find the time to socialise. She presumes it's easier for me as an outgoing singleton.

If only you knew, I reply, proceeding to outline in brief how difficult it has been, and to some degree continues to be, finding solid community in Brussels.

Image: Juan Gomez

In reality, the only guest in attendance I’ve known for longer than a year is Karin.  It’s also the first time I’ve hosted a group in years. Until late 2023, I had entertained a sole guest within the space of a year. Owing to the disposition of said invitee, it was a disaster. I needed to break out of this subconscious hosting moratorium.

My reluctance had a lot to do with the aforementioned bad experience and general relational disappointments, including the abrupt end to my friendship with Lorenzo.

Speaking of the devil, I happen to bump into my Italian former BFF en route to a shift at the Red Cross. That afternoon, I just about manage to board the close-to-full bus. I have little choice but to sit at the back. If I had sat in my usual spot, I’d have never seen Lorenzo. I don’t initially recognise him. He’s grown his fair locks to Rip Van Winkle lengths. I wonder whom this smiling hippy-like figure is. It’s not that he recognises me straight away either, he later admits. I'm differently coiffed to when we last saw each other, almost two years prior.

Lorenzo smiles not from recognition but because of the serene state of mind in which he’s currently in. I mention to him that, ironically, I have a long overdue call scheduled with our mutual friend, Melissa, the following day.

I am guarded at first. There is no apology or acknowledgement on Lorenzo's part for the way he torpedoed our friendship or the deep relational trauma caused by the insensitively-handled rupture. The bus ride is too short to address it, yet it’s something I’ll remain displeased about. Nevertheless, perhaps out of shock, the grace of God or both, we manage an organically cordial conversation before I have to rush off. If I could have anticipated our meeting, I wouldn't have responded with anything approaching magnanimity. As I alight the bus, I mutter to the Almighty that S/He has a wicked sense of humour...

Returning to the subject of my Christmas plans, I have no intentions to travel. I decide against it long before the PhD is even on the horizon, after the chaotic and stressful commute to the UK in 2023. 

Image: Debby Hudson

Whilst sis will also stay put in Japan this time, it is agreed mum will join me for the second half of the Yuletide pause, as is now habitual. For Christmas Day itself, I resume my custom of hosting non-relatives who also remain in situ over the festive break.

This year my guestlist is made up of my colleague Geraldine and Nadia; a Canadian-born, Italian-Libyan I know through my activism. She is unable to fly because of a health issue. Nadia is accompanied by her sister, Mariam- sleepy from jetlag. A good acquaintance from church, Wallace, makes a cameo. Originally from Uganda, she has a harrowing story that her ready smile belies. Living with a precarious migration status, travel isn't currently feasible. 

If this once again ends up being an all-female affair, it’s not for lack of trying. My male guests are no-shows. (One doesn’t even do the courtesy of letting me know. Despite his earlier confirmation, my efforts to follow-up are met with radio silence. My experience in Belgium reminds me once again of the male species' unreliability.)

On Christmas day itself, my stove decides to go on strike. This thus entails some improvising with the oven and microwave. Fortunately, I begin most of my Christmas meal preparations days in advance. However, it does mean my mashed potatoes aren’t as fluffy as I’d like and the veg is a little too crunchy. My guests are very kind and complimentary nonetheless; whether from a genuine place of contentment, pity or politeness, I can’t tell.

Soundtrack: California Holiday by Kadhja Bonet; a Christmas mix compiled by yours truly.

Happy 2025 to La Vie Continentale readers.

Low Season, High Season

Demonstrations in France against Macron's proposed retirement reforms
(connexionfrance.com)

The weeks leading up to Christmas are a bewildering blur of joy and pain.

Anxiety about the UK General Election is punctuated with moments of hope, only to be dashed by a heartbreaking outcome. Still, hope lives on. I am comforted by the sympathetic reaction from friend and fellow HRGS soprano, Michelle at a rehearsal the day after the result. I have willed myself out of the flat. It’ll be far too glum staying indoors.

Michelle has kept abreast of the news from Blighty. Believing the Brits to be conservative by nature, she’s not so much shocked by a Tory win but by how much. She tells me not to worry about Boris in the long term. The clown will go back to the circus, she quips.  (The crown analogy is misleadingly innocuous, I warn.)

Michelle also points to the success of the recent strikes across France in protest of Macron’s unpopular proposed retirement reforms. The trade unions have been revived thanks to this wave of industrial action, she explains. All is not lost.

A few days later, I briefly join trade unionist chum, Catarina and comrades on the picket line in central Strasbourg. The initial plan is to meet up for a hot beverage after I attend a careers fair near her office. When she informs me she’s on strike and intends to join the demonstrations in the city centre, I wonder why it hasn’t yet occurred to me to lend my support. Vive la solidarité ! At least the French put up a fight, I tell my francophone acquaintances. I am frustrated by what seems to be the docile acceptance by too many Brits of detrimental policies.

It’s my first time demonstrating in France. Red smoke bombs are let off. The sound of hand-held sirens give the march an eerie urgency. Many establishments are closed in solidarity, including my usual post-work haunt, the Malraux Médiathèque.

Elsewhere, the Strasbourg Christmas frenzy continues as normal. The decorations seem even more enchanting this year. The world-famous Christmas market still disrupts life in the centre of town.

The suffusion of light isn’t the only thing to gladden my heart amidst the grim weather and political climate. I meet up with my Guardian Angel, Gordon; a former THRO colleague. He treats me to a smoothie and uplifting conversation one lunch time. There’s been a lot of changes at The Organisation in the relatively short time since I left, according to other former colleagues. I can’t help but feel a little vindicated on the news that one of the problematic managers has been ‘reassigned’. I hope that isn’t vindictive, I ask Gordon. No, he reassures, it's understandable. A thoughtful and sweet-natured individual, he’s exactly what THRO needs but somehow still manages to be too good for them.

I have more special festive dinners than I know what to do with. It takes some strategic manoeuvring and disciplined day time eating to make room for it all. I skip out on at least one.

Thanks to my church house group, I have my first ever traditional raclette experience. About blinkin' time.

It’s the Alsatian equivalent of fondue. Regional cheese is melted on a grill and consumed with potatoes, sliced meat preservatives, salad and whatever else is at hand. I’m a little uneasy at first. Being one of the few foreigners and unfamiliar with the raclette set-up, the group leaders regularly ask for feedback. It makes me even more self-conscious. I’m still not entirely at ease in certain Francophone social settings. Small talk is no less of a chore. It takes me a while to unwind but relax I do; no small thanks to the warm welcome from Cape Verdean, Magda and her lovely family. She encourages my efforts to speak Portuguese. I spend much of the evening chasing her curmudgeonly toddler for a cuddle.

My choir also organise an end of year social. One Sunday evening we gather for a buffet at a capacious Chinese restaurant a stone’s throw from my church in La Meinau. En route, I greet some of the Girls waiting for clients. I recognise them from previous outings with the street outreach team.

The dinner is a rather raucous affair, particularly where the choir directors are seated. Their rambunctious chat and laughter startles star soprano, Nicole’s baby girl. The usually placid tot bursts into tears. A little FOMA starts to niggle. My mood is tempered by an earlier sartorial mishap that forced me to swap outfits. I’m not entirely comfortable in my replacement wear. The food selection is respectable. Psychologically however, I can no longer bring myself to eat to bursting as I once would have done at such establishments. As I settle in, chorister Elisabeth asks about my future plans. I explain that I’ve postponed my departure for a month or two. She says I’ll be missed. She has observed I’m breezier and more at home in my skin. I’ve come into my own. I explain that I’m not shy by nature; or at least only in limited contexts. It’s just I still feel like an imposter speaking French. I’m not as quick off the mark as I’d be in English.

Le Palais de la Meinau, Strasbourg

I greatly appreciate her words of support, nonetheless. Leaving HRGS behind might well be the hardest aspect of moving on. It’s been an integral part of my Strasbourg experience and, without a shadow of a doubt, the source of most of my happiest memories here.

The following week alone I participate in two choir-related activities; a memorial service for the victims of last year’s Christmas market terrorism and a charity event for a young man, Lazare, who has been in a coma for over a year. It’s a joyous occasion in spite of the circumstances. More precious memories made on and off stage. Musical director Kiasi meets his match when he calls on Sylvestre, Lazare’s football coach, to help him lead an audience participation segment. He is a natural entertainer who knows how to work the crowd. I can’t sing for laughing. It’s forever refreshing to see a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.

Soundtrack: The Legendary Riverside Albums (re-issue) by Chet Baker, Christmas mix (various artists)

The Visitor (Part 1)

Strasbourg Museum of Contemporary Art

 In mid-August, I welcome my first non-familial guest to Strasbourg. Just in time to take the edge off the high-summer lull.  

I met J at the birthday party of a former crush. As is often the case, the friendship has far out-lasted the infatuation.

She is a foursquare, intrepid globetrotting sexagenarian; full of zest and looking at least 10 years younger. Smooth skin and nary a wrinkle. She is half-way through a Theatre Studies degree. J is also one of the most engaging raconteurs I’ve come across, malaproprisms and all. She seems to attract outlandish characters or finds herself at the centre of the most unlikely scenarios. She is never short of an outrageous tale or five.  Having lived long enough to have seen the game from so many angles, she takes it all in her stride. All day and night we talk about everything from British politics and our writing pursuits, to divergent views on the questionable image of some high-profile women of African descent.

She is spending a week with me en route to Belgium. I’ve prepared a few meals in advance of her arrival including my signature mixed-meat tagine. I’ve tried to simplify travel around Strasbourg as much as possible with a ready-to-go Badgeo and various bus and tram timetables. I have an itinerary in mind for the first few days of her visit when I am free of work obligations. To balance out the week, I return to the office for the latter half. It works out well for both of us. J appreciates my efforts but reprimands me for fussing. Later on the phone to mum, she concurs

Yes, you do tend to go over the top.

Suits me. I’d rather err on the side of caution than be a negligent host.

On J’s first full day in Strasbourg, as is my custom, I take her on a lengthy promenade through the centre of town via République. As is also my custom, I get a bit lost around Petite France. I should know better, given that it’s one of my favourite parts of town.

Thanks to observant J, I see the town through new eyes. She points out architectural quirks that I hoped I'd never take for granted. She enquires about buildings I routinely pass and for which I've lost curiosity, if it were there at all. I have her to thank for properly bringing my attention to the Museum of Modern Contemporary Art; a luminous building covered in street art. It's a potential refuge to which I can steal away to read in pleasant surroundings, even if its raison d'etre doesn't interest me per se.

J asks to see what I dub the Quartier Noir. It’s a hop and a skip from Petite France. I warn her there isn’t much to see. Indeed, she seems resolutely unimpressed. She’s not even interested in popping inside the shops to see the over-priced food or Afro hair & beauty products.

Her first impression of Strasbourg is that it’s conservative (a common observation). According to J, the Francophone African/Caribbean community aren’t especially warm either.

I mention how much Strasbourg reminds me of a less congested version of Amsterdam, one of J’s favourite holiday destinations. According to some Strasbourgeois, it’s a comparison that’s frequently made. J can see the connection, except the Dutch capital would be livelier this time of year. She can’t get over how quiet it is.

I keep thinking it’s a Sunday. She remarks.

To my mind, there’s quite a buzz considering it’s the middle of the week during the summer holidays. Maybe I’m already adjusting to the desertion.

We return to mine thoroughly exhausted for a late afternoon/early evening siesta and dinner before going back out for the Strasbourg summertime light show, Lux. At three different locations around town after nightfall, silent silhouetted animations depicting key points in the City’s history are projected onto elevated diagonal screens. The spectacle has a Planetarium-like effect.  I choose the site next to the Cathedral and we join a couple of hundred other night-gazers. I am under the impression that it’s an hour long show. The advertised time is 10-11pm. I am mistaken. The display lasts but a few minutes, playing in a loop at regular intervals. I can barely appreciate it, so distracted I am by the pungent cigarettes smoked by inconsiderate audience members. 

On the plus side, we have more of the evening left than anticipated. The next day is a public holiday. There’s no rush. J wants to treat us both to iced dessert. We stop off at a parlour en route home, taking an unplanned scenic diversion via the banks of the canal. 

Plans to stroll to my local forest the following day are jettisoned when J shows interest in crossing the border to Kehl. Admittedly, the German town is likely to show more signs of life than its French neighbour. Public holidays here are quiet to an almost miserable extent.

I take J to my usual shopping haunts. Her arches are playing up and she needs to rest. It's hard for me to observe the ageing process slowly catching up with evergreen J. It's evident in her carriage and involuntary gestures that weren't previously apparent.

We take five before I pop into the church in the square for a moment of stillness. Our diverse conversation habit brings us to the topic of the Windrush generation. J describes her mum’s intimidating journey to the UK across the waters lasting weeks. A very young bride in her early teens, she was reuniting with her husband in London, pregnant with their first child (J). The discussion turns to her experiences of colourism within the West Indian community; the unabashed prejudice faced by dark-skinned Caribbeans from their lighter-skinned compatriots. J has been treated differently based on the assumption she is of mixed-heritage. Personally partial to darker complexions, it infuriates her. She once broke off a friendship when an otherwise close acquaintance wanted to use her supposed dual ethnicity as social capital.

For as long as I’ve known J, she has been the epitome of singleness lived to the fullest. Over the course of our many conversations, I realise just how much of the world she’s seen. I’m both envious and inspired to add more destinations to my wish list.  Not that she brags. It’s simply that J’s wanderlust is such an integral part of her, she has spent most of her adult life trying to satisfy it.

It's therefore always a surprise, and a bit of a disappointment, when she enquires about my love life. Not for the first time this trip, she raises the subject of me settling down.

What about you? I reply. You’re single and fulfilled.

Yes but...for you younger ones, it would be nice to marry. You have so many winning attributes…

 In spite of it being a sensitive topic, J’s concern doesn’t offend me the way it would coming from others.  It does make me wonder, though. What does it say if even J is starting to worry about my marital status? 

J is curious about why none of my French admirers have stirred romantic interest. She asks about my current (now fading) crush.  She’d like to know why it’s not viable. We talk attraction, long-term compatibility and how the two don’t always align. We theorise about why some remain single after a certain age. It’s never an exact science.

That evening, I plan to treat J to some traditional Alsatian food. It’s a thank you for offering me lodgings during my last trip to Blighty. There are however, a few false starts. I forget the directions to my restaurant of choice. By the time we arrive, we are told they are short-staffed and full-to-capacity. I apologise profusely to J, much to her irritation.

You’ve said it once. That’ll do.

Trip Advisor favourite Les Fines Gueules, is my last hope of salvaging the evening. The service is superb. Waitress Lisa gives us her full attention, perhaps because it’s a quiet night. Last time I tried to eat here, they were fully-booked.

Les Fines is just off a main road. It should be swarming with life on a public holiday. Instead, the dark and deserted streets unnerve me.

Soundtrack of the week: Atlantis: Hymns for Disco by K-Os.

Part 2 

Summer Breeze

(courtesy of Miss-Elka.fr)

A few days after my music-saturated weekend, I welcome mum for her third and longest visit thus far. I am a bit nervous about what to do with her for a week. It’s a hectic time at work and I haven’t taken much leave.

Don’t worry, she reassures,
June has been a busy month. I’m looking forward to the rest.

True. A stressful day job aside, mum’s weekends have overflowed with weddings and big birthday events at church. Once she arrives that Tuesday evening (thankfully without much of a hitch), to complete her sense of independence I give her a spare key and travelcard.

As usual, mum has gone over and beyond as far as UK goodies are concerned. I’m even more her baby now that I am living abroad. I can’t complain. And as much as I appreciate having my own space, I admit it’s also lovely having someone to welcome me home from work for a change. And somebody to squash any critters who try to invade my tidy home.

True to her word, mum is a lady of leisure for the first couple of days of her stay. However, I can’t have her cooped up indoors all trip. We must at least go out for dinner. 

Being a Thursday night, I naively think I can walk into some of the best reviewed establishments in town without a reservation. When both my first choice and contingency fall through, we have to improvise. Finalement, ca tombe bien, comme on dit.

We stumble upon an overlooked eaterie with cheerful customer service and hearty portions, just off La Grand Rue.

The next day, I rush home following a frantically busy morning at work to spend the afternoon with mum in Kehl. There's an incident on the tram as we approach the German border. We're in the middle of a heatwave. A pallid, frail-looking young woman collapses. Fortuitously for her, she is surrounded by expert first aiders. I pass her my tepid bottle of water. She accepts gratefully. I regret not at least first wiping the rim.

The tram comes to an emergency stop whilst the first aiders take care of the infirm.  We change vehicles and resume our Kehl-bound programme. I’d hoped to tack on a day trip deeper into Germany but mum has other ideas. That would be far too pressured, she advises. Unbeknownst to me, she plans to add some further flourishes to my flat.

That evening, I go upstairs to change and come down to find all manners of embellishments I’ve not seen before.

I’ve been invited (sort of) to a church barbeque that weekend. Mum is game, to my relief. One less activity to rack my head about. That Saturday is a scorcher; the hottest day of a consistently warm week. I expect to see dozens of guests milling around chewing on snacks, rendering it easier to inconspicuously make our late entrance (it would seem odd for two relative unknowns to show up early or even on time to a casual affair). Instead, the select few invitees are already sitting down to their grilled meat. Drinks have been served and much of the salad has already gone. Thank goodness, we're not too late for some succulent grub.  We receive a warm welcome from host Raymond, one of the few familiar faces. I also recognise Angelo originally from Mozambique, his Cape Verdean wife Celina and two of their adorable brood. I spot a strikingly handsome young fellow who bears a passing resemblance to Ghanaian-American actor Kofi Siriboe. An older unfamiliar man stares at me without compunction. I voice my unease to mum. He later tries to inveigle his way unsuccessfully into our conversations.

I’m nervous about having to translate for mum all afternoon. Having used too much English all week, I’m glad for the French practice but not sure if I’m mentally up to the task. Mum and I sit opposite Catarina who is keen to practise her English. We have met briefly before at Angelo’s house during a home fellowship. I speak to her in French, she replies in both languages. It puts mum at ease. Catarina nearly chokes on her drumstick when she realises the youthful woman sitting next to me is my mother. It's the first of many such reactions that weekend.

Catarina is refreshingly frank. We learn much about her Neapolitan family who settled in France during the Second World War. She talks about her strained relationship with her dad and disillusion with church. Following a particularly painful experience, she’s tentatively working her way back to faith. I can relate, I explain to her.

We pass a very cordial afternoon in the company of Raymond and co (no, not that one) before heading to town to pick up some ingredients for the jollof rice mum plans to cook. We hit the city centre shortly after France’s game with Argentina has commenced. I have wilfully ignored the World Cup. Not being in the least sporty, it used to be the one international tournament to coax me out of indifference. I abandoned interest long ago following one too many negative experiences.

This year my policy of World Cup apathy stands me in good stead. I learn from friends and family more devoted to the beautiful game that African nations have failed to live up to their potential.

Again.

That Saturday afternoon, my surprisingly football-enthusiastic mum has just about recovered from that disappointment.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg are at once busy and deserted, everyone congregated around the nearest flatscreen television. Outside one bar a patriot rouses the crowd with chants and a triumphant sounding mini-speech. Cries of ecstasy and frustration intermingle.

Mum and I look on with bemused fascination.

Tout le monde s’eclate, n’est ce pas? I comment to one shopkeeper.

Once France’s victory is confirmed (4-2), Strasbourg goes bat-crazy with jubilation. Fans cry out in the streets, faces painted in blue, white and red. Hours afterwards French nationals of all descriptions continue to shout with glee from car windows whilst horning furiously. That night, in the wee small hours of the morning I can still hear the odd victorious exclamation in my usually quiet neighbourhood.

There’ll be lots of celebratory sex tonight, I comment to mum. She giggles conspiratorially.

This isn’t even the quarter-finals (That's the following week. Everyone slouches off work early to watch what will be another French victory against Uruguay. My office becomes a ghost town). It makes me wish I could go back to World Cup 1998, when France beat Brazil to take home the trophy. The country must have come to a standstill for weeks in one collective paroxysm of joy.

The View from A Bridge: Orangerie, Strasbourg

Sunday morning at church, one of the associate pastors excuses himself for his lack of voice.

Blame it on singing the national anthem after yesterday's game. He apologises, not-so-guiltily.

Following my less than satisfactory attempts to translate the service for mum, we catch up with my good mate Jeanne after the service (whose mother also happens to be in town) and more recent acquaintance, Serafine whom mum has taken a shining to.

That afternoon I show mum round my local park, The Orangerie. It’s another gorgeous day, even better for the breeze. The oriental influenced landscape-gardening makes me a tad nostalgic for Japan. Mum comes to share the sentiment. In her company, we explore parts of the Park with which I have been previously unfamiliar. We find a choice spot under the shade, opposite a large pond. Before I know it, I am opening up about my latest-and deepest-crisis of faith. I have kept it to myself as not to demoralise her. In the end, she handles it better than expected. She draws from her own experience to encourage me. It’s an emotional but edifying exchange.

It’s hands down been mum’s most enjoyable stay to date. It flies past. Although confiding in me that she prefers the cultural inclusiveness of the UK to what she perceives of France, Strasbourg nevertheless has a place in her heart.

As is our unintentional custom, we manage to arrive at Gare Centrale with only a few minutes to spare before her train to Basel Airport. We barely have time to kiss our farewells.